Okay. Prefacing this, let me warn you — I don’t have a new year’s resolution for 2014, but I do think it’d be good if I wrote at least random garbage on days I don’t get much else done, for the wordcount. Just, random word-doodles if you will. You know? This is just me randomly banging at a keyboard for half an hour, don’t expect anything good. Don’t even expect anything legible.

 

Okay. I started writing about garden fairies. Then it all went a bit Jurassic Park…

———-

Somewhere in the night, John knew, the elves were lurking. Perhaps behind the bushes, inside the hedge… hard to tell. Invisible little shits.

He cocked his shotgun with one yank of the pump, resulting in a satisfying kachok of metal on metal, and lifted it to his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything past his sights except shrubbery, but the girls had, so they had claimed, seen fairies.

The kids were, he prayed, wrong. Last thing they needed in Sussex was a bunch of bloody fae flapping around, shitting on everything and fucking in house-eaves. By next spring there’d be dozens of litters dropping — the little bastards bred faster than fucking rats.

His breath hissed hot across the cold steel of the shotgun’s barrel, fogged it just in front of his nose. One breath after another, his attention remained fixed on the foliage.

His neck prickled. Something was wrong.

He held his breath, and looked slowly down at the length of the shotgun. The fog of his breath misting the steel… and a trail of tiny, bare, footprints. Even as he watched, a tiny set of invisible toes cleared a shining patch on the barrel — one of the fae tiptoeing up mere inches from his nose.

John grit his teeth, body tensed in anticipation. “Clever girl…”

They heard his screams from clear down the village pub, but by the time they got there — pints slopping over the rims of the glasses when they stopped, heaving for breath — there was nothing on the heath but a splash of blood and runes burnt into the grass.

 

 

“You have fairies in the shed?”

“Aye.”

“Fucking fairies?”

“Aye. S’ why it’s electric, innit?”

For some mad reason, though Shaw had given up on expecting anything sane out of Rupert some years ago, the shed was wrapped in chicken-wire, and the chicken-wire was jumper-cabled to a row of car batteries. Christmas lights ringed the top, blinking incessantly.

“Bullshit,” Shaw murmured.

“No?” Rupert puled down the ears of his bobble-cap determinedly. “S’ feeding time. Watch this.”

The nutter had a goat on a bit of string. Using a pooper-scooper claw to turn the door handle, he ushered the goat inside with a few furious thwacks before yanking the door closed behind it. Immediately the goat began to scream in terror.

Shaw rushed to the window, but Rupert held him back. “Don’t get close! The electric!”

Shaw couldn’t see anything inside the dingy shed, the windows were too cluttered and dirty — a can of Heinz had rusted through and leaked onto the lone shelf in view, leaving a dirty stain, but he couldn’t see anything else that might have offended the goat’s senses…

“Fuck!” Shaw yelled, recoilling away. “The hell was that?”

It happened again. A tinkling noise, and a flash of light. The goat wailed.

“Eeee,” Rupert groaned, pulling the front of the bobble-cap over his eyes. “Poor goat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Rupert went through the business with the scooper and the door, releasing the goat.

It staggered out of the shed, steaming. Its beard was braided, with a bow, and someone had woven a fucking tapestry into its flanks, of quite a nice country field. With a final bleat, the goat collapsed.

Something battered at the back of the shed door, and Rupert narrowed his eyes. “Told you,” he murmured. “D’in’ I? Fuckin’ told you.”